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The pale silk catches the light, and the coolness of the material reminds me of its presence whenever I get out my money or feel for my bus pass. I keep my spare pair of glasses in it. I only really need glasses for reading, but they make you wear them all the time once you reach a certain age. It’s part of the uniform. How would they know you were an old duffer otherwise? They want you to have the right props so they can tell you apart from people who have the decency to be under seventy. False teeth, hearing aid, glasses. I’ve been given them all.
    Helen always makes sure I have them before we leave the house. She stops short of checking I have my teeth in, but she makes a special point about the glasses. I think she thinks I’ll start bumping into things if I forget them. So I always have one pair on a chain around my neck—ready for any reading eventuality. They’re not helping much at the moment. I’m looking for a sweater. A nice sensible colour and thin wool. Just like we used to wear. If I can keep that picture in my mind, I don’t think I’ll forget what I’m looking for. But I haven’t come across it yet, and I’m ready to drop.
    I dig into a square bin full of socks, sagging against the side, my arms lost in the fabric. An image of my mother battering a mass of clothes against the sides of a suitcase blinks into my head and is gone. “I can’t understand why it’s so difficult to find a normal sweater.”
    Helen and Katy sigh, and I wonder how long we’ve been walking around, how long we’ve been searching. I’m starting to regret this trip. It’s a pity, because I used to love shopping. But the shops are so different now, everything jumbled together, jumbled about. So many odd colours. Who is it wears these bright orange things? They must look like road diggers. Young people will wear almost anything, it appears.
    Just look at Katy. Seems funny I should have a granddaughter with “piercings,” though I suppose she is considered quite unremarkable by other teenagers. Perhaps I would have “piercings,” too, if I were young now. She leans on a rail of floral skirts, mimicking my own pose; only Helen stays completely upright, standing in the middle of the lino path, forcing other shoppers to dodge past her.
    “Mother, we’ve shown you a hundred sweaters,” she says. “You’ve rejected them all. There are no more left to show you.”
    “Can’t have been a hundred.” I do get annoyed at Helen’s exaggerations. “What about over there? We haven’t looked in that bit yet.” I point to the other side of Women’s Wear.
    “Grandma, we’ve just come from there.”
    Of course we have. Have we?
    Katy pushes herself away from the skirts, hooking a cream sweater off a rail next to her. “Look, this one is nice. It’s the right sort of colour.”
    “It’s ribbed. No good.” I shake my head. “I can’t understand it. All I want is a sweater with a round neck. Not a polo, not a V. Warm, but not too thick.”
    Katy grins at her mother before turning to me. “Yes, and it can’t be too long, but mustn’t be too short—”
    “Exactly. Half the sweaters don’t even cover your belly button. And I know you’re making fun, Katy,” I say, though I only know after I’ve started to answer. “But it’s not much to ask, is it? A normal sweater.”
    “And a normal colour. Black or navy or beige or—”
    “Thank you, Katy. You may laugh, but you can’t really expect me to wear one of these odd colours. Puce or magenta or teal or whatever they are.” I can’t help smiling; it’s nice, being teased. Elizabeth often teases me, too. It makes me feel human. At least someone assumes I’m intelligent enough to get a joke.
    My granddaughter laughs, but Helen puts her hands up to her head, surveying the rails and rails of clothes. “Mum, can’t you see that to find a sweater that is the length, thickness, colour, neck-type, and goodness knows what else that suits you personally is an